What If There Were Two
by zealousfreak27
Summary: Mycroft sends Sherlock an audio file of John speaking to his therapist about Sherlock that will change everything. Post-fall but not focused on the aftermath. Asexual!Sherlock/straight!John. COMPLETE.
1. Side by Side in Orbit

**AN/ This has post-Reichenbach elements but doesn't focus on it after the first chapter. I've been down that road before, people.**

**I consider this fic a right of passage. Asexual!Sherlock is a favorite! Also made him quite emotionally clueless :)**

**Title and chapter names taken from REM's "Nightswimming."**

* * *

I'm spinning about, reeling, deducing, thinking. I shouldn't be enjoying this, I know. Or that's what they would say. Those mysterious people termed as 'they' by society, those who have decided and mediate all levels of normality. 'They' would say that my joy in taking down Moriarty's web, in destroying it, killing or neutralizing his minions, is most decidedly not healthy or good.

Good. Another word that is tossed about until its meaning is vague and cheap. I consider the fact that with every agent I take down, my friends are less likely to die, a good thing. It may be Machiavellian of me, but I would say that I would do very near to anything to keep them safe. I do not make friends easily or lightly; once I do I intend to keep them whole and intact.

I worry about them occasionally, although it is pointless to do so. I have Molly and Mycroft send me updates as to how they are faring. Sentiment: dull and yet somehow unescapable. This entire operation, although metally stimulating, is being fueled by my feelings for those I wish to keep safe. It has positive side effects for my own person; I use this knowledge to appease my inner, self-obsessed side. This side of me was once the most powerful of all, but apparently gaining only three friends (although I begin to count Molly, which brings the ever-lengthening list to four; how do people survive with these friendships all the time?) has apparently taught me valuable lessons in altruism.

I am on my laptop in an airport, scanning for chinks in the defense of a gang that was under Moriarty's control, when I notice an email from Mycroft. I am tempted to ignore it, but know that that would be futile and self-defeating; besides, it could be an update on one of my friends. My flight is not to be boarded for thirty minutes and it is likely to be longer judging by the hostess' coffee and the steward's anxious glancing at his watch.

Mrs Hudson is ill according to the email. She took my death rather badly, I have learned. I expected this, of course, but still dislike to hear of it. John, the good doctor that he is, has been taking care of her.

Aside from that scrap of information, there does not seem to be much on John. However, there is increasingly depressing news on Lestrade. His wife has left him; he was already on probation at the Yard (proving how very stupid they all are; Lestrade is the best they have. Not saying much, I suppose), I imagine the man is truly desolate at the moment. I dislike learning of it.

Mycroft also has information on what has been done with the operatives of Moriarty that I did not feel the need to eliminate. He has congratulated me, no doubt because he knows that I did not want him to, on their capture. Apparently several of them had valuable knowledge that benefited the well-being of many people. He understands, of course, that I do not care in the least. I have always wondered if his insistence on telling me when I have helped people is simply in order to rib me or if it is a way of reminding me that I should care.

There is an audio-file attacted to the email as well. I hope that it pertains to John; the lack of information on him is disheartening and I wish to know how he is faring.

I put in earphones and pressed play on the file.

It is grainy, full of static. I wait impatiently for several seconds, long enough for me to make six guesses as to what the audio will be.

My heart rate increases (what does this mean?) when I hear John's voice coming through the earbuds.

It takes me fifteen seconds to determine the identity of the person speaking to him. Female, most likely black, estimated age mid-thirties. First I think _Girlfriend_, and why is there a squirming, intense feeling in my stomach? I don't know what it is and I want it to go away.

Soon, it is clear that she is not a girlfriend but is his therapist. And a bloody awful one at that.

Mycroft, the nosy git, has bugged John's therapist's office. That is equally horrifying and hilarious and in no way unsurprising. It is also a good way into John's thoughts at the moment. Although he is unlikely to open up to her (he does has trust issues, though never towards me for some ridiculous reason that I'd never been able to deduce) any scrap of what is going through his head is important.

Her prying questions easily show that she is concerned that he might be suicidal. I snort at that though - surely not John! He is too strong, too self-sufficient. He wouldn't commit suicide...

My mind is immediately remembering how he was when I first met him - I'd actually found him pathetic at the time, one of the rare instances in which I was ever wrong. My opinion had changed on that first night with him and grown from there. Still, he was unbearably sad and seemingly useless. A soldier with a limp, a doctor with a tremor. Through me, he had found companionship, adrenaline and adventure. All that was gone now, and for all he knew it was forever.

But surely he wouldn't... I must ask Mycroft to watch him more closely.

He is, as I'd guessed, not at all open with his therapist. It worries me that he doesn't even bother with sarcasm and wit as I know he is capable; instead, he sounds devastated.

At the start of the recording, their conversation had been rather dull. Worth listening to, as it had to do with John, but hardly important at all. About John's family and who he'd been seeing lately.

When they begin to speak about John's nightmares, I straighten. It... hurts, in the emotional sense, to hear of the terrors John has been facing by night. I do not have a very strong concept of guilt, but based on previous research due to what I was feeling towards what Lestrade has been suffering, that is what this feeling I am currently experiencing is. Dull and utterly illogical. John would be dead if I were not doing what I am, and yet there it is.

Then she asks about me and I can see the expression on John's face, constructed from the hurt in his voice. He stumbles through a few words about me and how hard it's been and I can't even begin to sort through all the emotions I am feeling.

She asks, "Were you in love with him, John?" and I roll my eyes. That's what they all jump to, of course. She'll be scratching away at her pad of paper now. _Repressed homosexuality_. People are so predictable. I wait for John to scoff at her.

"I didn't want to shag him if that's what you mean. We've talked about this before. I'm nearly forty, have no problem with homosexuality and I've tried just about everything else. You'd think that I'd know by now if I was bi."

"You're avoiding the question, John," she says in that annoyingly soothing voice of hers.

John sighs and there is silence in the office. I wonder what this means, because surely -

"Yeah." More silence while I digest this. I mostly think _What?_ "I suppose I was. I'd have done anything for him, you know. Think that counts as love. God, he was the maddest, most amazing person who I ever met. And I just - why am I telling you all this?"

"I'm your therapist John. You're supposed to tell me things." Softer tone. "You didn't tell him."

There is a laugh from John, and it is all wrong. It's not a giggle or an unbridled expression of joy; it is far too bitter. I hate it. "Of course not. He was bloody Sherlock Holmes."

I imagine she purses her lips. "John... Do you wish you'd told him?"

"I..." Pause in which I guess John runs a hand over his face. It helps, creating this image in my mind. Makes me feel close to him. "No. I wouldn't have wanted to ruin what we had with lowly _sentiment_."

The therapist blathers on about how feelings are important and shouldn't be dismissed. She sounds as though she is quoting from a textbook.

John is apparently done with being open for the day. He says nothing for the rest of the session aside from empty words and promises.

I feel an incessant worry niggling in the back of my mind. I email Mycroft, trying not to beg and hopefully not failing, asking him to watch John more carefully. I tried to word it more as orders; he is in my debt and I have the upper-ground against him as we both know.

When I board the aeroplane, I finally take the time to fully process what I had heard. It had never truly left my mind, even as I carried my luggage and found my seat. But now I finally turn all my mind's power to the audio file.

So John. In love. With me. How on earth had I managed to miss that?

I push aside emotion for the moment to be dealt with later. I suppose it is not too strange that I did not see this; I can hardly deal with my own feelings. John is not physically attracted to me so it is understandable, as there was no outer signs to read. (Except I suddenly remember certain blushes from John and his too heavy denile of being in a relationship with me). I feel like an idiot, a novel experience.

_And how do you feel about this Sherlock? _some corner of my mind asks. Hm. From a quick check, I would say ecstatic.

Why? Why would I be happy that someone is in love with me? (But that person is _John_.) From an ousider's standpoint, to see this in perspective...

Oh! Oh, does this mean I love him back?

Is that what that fluttering, annoying feeling is? I always did feel it around John. It's horrible, but somehow not so horrible at all. I used to feel it whenever John would be particularly clever or was sleepy in the morning or called me brilliant or cared about me... or most of the time. God, how do people deal with this all the time? I feel as though I am about to burst.

I would normally push aside such irritating emotions, but it is oddly enjoyable now that I can identify it. And love for John can surely not be so dangerous. He has proved to be a wonderful friend and I doubt he would be a bad... What would we be? Boyfriends? Juvenile term. Lovers? Not to my tastes. Hm. No labels need apply.

And John is not sexually interested in me. Most people would find that insulting or some such nonsense, but I feel unspeakably relieved. It is one more way in which I am a 'freak' I suppose, my complete disdain and horror for the prospect of sex. Being that close to a person, the sweat and semen and shudders, how can they all bare it? I tried once. That was not good. Physical pleasure means nothing to me; all I could concentrate on was how unsanitary it was.

Even with John, the prospect disgusts me. I might have, if he wanted to... What am I thinking? Is this what love does to you? Makes you forget your own needs? I am mildly horrified.

Still, as it is, this is a perfect scenario. John loves me, I love John, and there will be no sex involved. I begin to plan happily, ignoring for now the fact that I must get back to John first, and the road there may be painful and troublesome.

It is imperative that John be dispelled of his notion that his love is not returned. I must get home to him.

* * *

**AN/ Well, Mycroft had John's therapist's notes in the first episode. This was just the next step.**

**I thought I wrote a pretty good Sherlock here. (LOL, he thinks everything is going to be easy with John). Anyway, as said, I don't want another post-Reichenbach focused story. So yeah, that's not what's coming next chapter except for slight mentions.**


	2. Around the Fairest Sun

**AN/ Took me a while but I had ridiculous amounts of fun writing this. It was really hard to write for some reason. Hm.**

* * *

It's been about a month since Sherlock returned and his behavior is starting to bother me.

He was gone for almost two years, actually longer than I knew him, so of course there would be changes to him. He's more... I wouldn't say mellow, but he has certainly calmed a bit. From what he's told me, he spent most of the time he was gone getting shot at and having to take lives. I can sympathize. I think he's wiser now - always was a genius, but I think he understands the world and people better now.

He seems to appreciate company. That's definitely new. His nightmares seem to match mine in frequency and intensity. He wouldn't admit it, but he appreciates it when I wake him up from the night terrors and calm him until he sleeps again.

I feel almost guilty over how I treated him when he first returned. I was angry, understandably so, but punching him in the face and then barely listening as he tried to explain was a bit uncalled for. After his reasons really sunk into me, I had already left him alone at Baker Street, storming off as I always used to.

I had guessed that he had been pressured into jumping, but not that my life had been forfeit. Perhaps I should have.

I forgave him, of course. As if there was anything to forgive him for. He really had no choice, I know only thing that I really have to blame him for is lying to me up there on that roof. The stupid man thought it would be easier for me, to think he was a fraud. Prick.

There is still some part of me that can't accept that he is alive. I have my own nightmares, and afterwards I always must make my way to him, to assure myself.

We are pushing on through all this, together. We both hope to start cases soon, and that the press will leave off soon. I think Sherlock finally understands that public opinion is important, if only a little. It's not important to him, but he knows now that the masses can be dangerous.

I was not the only person to take Sherlock's not being dead a bit harshly. Mrs Hudson sobbed after she got over the shock and Sherlock checked over her very concernedly, having learned of her sickness. I wondered how I ever could have thought that he didn't care that she'd been shot.

Lestrade had been feeling guilty, in my opinion unfoundedly. Sherlock received another punch for all his trouble, although watching them skirt around each other would have been amusing if the situation hadn't been so serious.

Mycroft knew the whole time, the bastard. I sometimes fantasize about causing him bodily harm.

But even with the relative return to what passes as normal for us, Sherlock has been acting... different. These changes are not so explainable.

I would take his gestures as kindness or friendship if they were not so uncharacteristic for him. It both pleases and unsettles me when he brings me a cup of tea or hugs me or whatever strange behavior he's decided on today. Just yesterday he actually _ruffled my hair_. But it's wrong somehow. Or maybe I'm just confused.

But we finally have a case now, so I put my worries and emotions aside, at least for the moment.

* * *

The case had seemed to be fascinating at first, but for his highness, the end was not satisfactory. A body whose face and fingers had been destroyed beyond recognition had easily caught Sherlock's attention. The investigation had gone smoothly and the rush of adrenaline had made me giddy.

In the end, the man had been killed because of debt to a gang, which Sherlock had immediately labled as _dull_. Everyone but him was happy; the press got to rave about the poor, wronged detective (so fickle), the Yard caught a notorious gang leader and I got a chase across London and time with Sherlock.

We're back at the flat now, and although Sherlock's mind had not been fully occupied, he loves running across as much as I do. He looks flushed and happy.

I was going to go upstairs and pass out when Sherlock informed me that we were going to dinner. Not a question. That's the Sherlock I know.

We walk to Chinese in companionable silence. Or I thought it was companionable silence until I noticed that Sherlock was fidgeting and glancing at me sideways. Huh.

After we order, I put in effort to make conversation and eventually got Sherlock talking about cases before he met me. I had known that would work. Sherlock loves to talk about himself.

He smiles almost delicately at me when I tell him he's brilliant and there's a warm, glowing feeling in my chest. I missed him, the git.

He manages to insult our waitress and I try to stay disproving but end up bursting into laughter. Sherlock looks highly pleased with himself as she struts away. I try to turn my attention back to my food, but Sherlock is apparently on a mission to make me laugh now. He makes a rather rude comment about Mycroft that has me snorting my wine up my nose.

We pay (or rather I do as Sherlock is already out the door, the dick) and then start to walk home. I'm mentally comparing myself at the moment to the me two months ago. The difference is staggering. If I ever need to convince myself that Sherlock is good for me, I just need to remember the contentedness I am currently enjoying.

We're back in our flat now, and again, before I can leave, Sherlock stops me. I turn to look at him.

"John," he starts.

"Yes," I say, still beaming.

Sherlock looks unsure, which is alarming on his usually aloof face. "Have we been courting long enough for me to kiss you?"

What?

Oh. Well, that explains the movie he went to see with me. And the rest of his behavior.

I'm physically incapable of saying anything at the moment, and Sherlock looks even more uncertain. "You are the more experienced in this area, John. You'll have to help me out."

I force out, "I thought this wasn't your area at all."

"You're different John, surely you know that." Sherlock is wearing his you're-an-idiot face now. I can cope with that.

"Sherlock, what made you think we've been dating?"

His turn to look puzzled. "We've been getting food," ("We've always done that," I mutter under my breath), "and doing typical, dull date activities. I've been far more affectionate - "

I cut him off there, rolling my eyes. "Sherlock. We never even talked about it."

Sherlock looks indignant. "Yes we did! I informed you of my intentions three weeks after my return."

I run a hand across my face, realizing what this is. "Sherlock, was I even in the flat?"

He looks thoughtful. "I suppose you weren't." He pouts. "You must stop leaving John. It's very inconvenient." The bastard. Then he looks suddenly nervous. "So we aren't... dating?" The word sounds unnatural on his lips, as if he would rather use 'courting' still.

I smile at him. "You know how I feel about you, don't you? You must have deduced it."

He looks shifty and won't quite meets my eyes as he says, "Yes, of course I deduced it."

"And since you wish we were dating and want to kiss me, I can deduce the same about you?"

He looks straight at me now. "Yes John." My name sounds like a blessing on his lips.

"Then I guess we're dating now."

He smiles, and it transforms his entire face. He swoops to kiss me.

It's not so different, kissing a man. Sherlock is hesitant; it's patently obvious that he has no experience at all, so I pull him closer and kiss him thoroughly.

We break, and I smirk because he's wide-eyed and his mouth is hanging open. "John..." he starts and I sit back to listen to what he has to say. "I think I have to clarify that I don't..."

He looks very uncomfortable and I smirk a little harder. "I'm straight, Sherlock. Doesn't mean I don't love you."

He blinks rather hard and I soften. Has anyone ever told him that?

Later, I have to laugh a bit. This life is going to be a lot like Afghanistan; shooting, getting shot at, and no sex. Well, I had missed Afghanistan. Good to be back.

I look at Sherlock, as he sleeps (it's a bloody miracle!) next to me. We were both tired after the case and ended up in his bed, stuck together. _Totally worth it_, I think, and snuggle close to him.

* * *

**AN/ THE END.**

** Had planned for three chapters, but oh well. Will be back to play soon.**


End file.
